


nefelibata

by chadpelle



Category: Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Hair Dyeing, M/M, soft as hell but don't worry I have a painful draft to edit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-26 04:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chadpelle/pseuds/chadpelle
Summary: Pelle is his favorite food for thought, an enigma despite how he seemingly lays himself out.
Relationships: Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin
Kudos: 19





	nefelibata

The smell of Pelle's bedroom is an offensive one, of earth and rot. Coupled with the reek of the hair dye, Øystein's eyes might be watering, if only he weren't so used to both stenches.

For some fuck-only-knows reason, Pelle had insisted on helping him dye his hair today. He looked excited and Øystein is not one to deny Pelle much at all, let alone when he seems as invigorated, and so he gave up the luxury of the bathroom mirror to leave his hair in Pelle's hands. He has a little more faith in doing such a thing knowing that it will wash away if Pelle decides to dick around.

His mood seems upwards in general today, and Øystein is thankful for it. Pelle rambles aimlessly as he works, not looking for a chat but rather someone to talk at; Øystein is more than glad to be this person. His voice is young and sweet and his words vary between disturbing and bleak, flowing almost as easily as his arms move while he paints Øystein's hair black. He has always loved Pelle's voice; so light and airy when he speaks, almost drowned out by the tape they are listening to, and yet his screams are pained and deep. Everything about him is a contrast, and as Øystein is gifted with the opportunity to do nothing but sit and think, he picks all of these contrasts apart in his mind.

Pelle is, after all, his favorite food for thought, an enigma despite how he seemingly lays himself out.

Øystein notices the gentle pulling on his hair pause for too long, and snaps from his daze.

"Are you listening?" Pelle is asking. He tilts Øystein's head back to face him as he leans over him, certainly smudging black dye on his chin.

"Sorry," he says.

"I asked if you thought I'd look nice with black hair."

Øystein blinks, tries to picture it, and fails. "I think you'd look nice with any color," he says anyways, the sentiment behind his words true enough.

"Ass kisser," Pelle says, but he leans down to kiss his forehead before nudging his head back to where it was. "What are you thinking about that's more interesting than me?" His voice is lilting and playful, and Øystein feels his hair being toyed with.

"Nothing," he lies.

Pelle yanks on his hair, but leaves his response at that, leaning down and lifting another section of strands to dye the hairs at the nape of his neck. A while of almost silence passes — the music is too quiet to be comprehensible, a real shame — and Øystein closes his eyes, nodding his head as directed by Pelle. Afternoon sun bleeds in through the gaps in the curtains shrouding Pelle's small window, and the moment feels like a little photograph in time, although that is such a romantic thought it might make him sick to recognize it ever crossed his mind.

He realizes, in between the following, blissful absences of noise in his head, that this may be the first time anyone has ever dyed his hair for him. It brings a faint smile to his face — who better than his little artist?


End file.
